"Give that back, you rat!"

Abberline looked around with his eyes wide open. He felt how all his muscles tensed ready to run if needed and his hand crumpled the paper he held. It was the third day he was in another slum looking for the missing children. So far he had no clues, not even about the scarred girl who was the most recognisable one of all of them. But the officer knew how the slums worked: just a bunch more of children without luck. A slim figure gave him a blow in his hip as it passed by his side and Abberline didn't look back to know that, whoever it was, was who had caused the ruckus. The furious insults of the baker grew in intensity at the same time they became distant when the young inspector ran towards the figure. Thin and with ginger long hair; that person wasn't in his list, but Abberline was someone who trusted his guts when he had no clues about a case. So he ran, dodging puddles and carriages and startled bystanders, trying to not lost the slim teen in the crowded streets. They turned a corner and Fred followed with a hand on his hat and the other crumpling the paper in a tight fist so he didn't lost it.

"Hey!"

The fleeing teen stopped their tracks when they found a dead end, and turned around to check if Abberline had caught up with them. Just when the teenager was cursing in a low voice and starting to climb a barrel placed against a wall, the inspector caught them by the sleeve of the brown jacket they wore around the shoulders. For a second, Fred widened his eyes when his fingers closed over an empty sleeve, but he recovered his composure in a second and yanked the boy by the waist.

"Let me go! I wasn't stealing anything!"

"So you paid for that."

Abberline let him go and the boy squared his shoulders with all the dignity he could compose. He was thin and tall, had ginger hair gathered in a ponytail and sported a pair of grey trousers some sizes bigger than his. He also wore a brown jacket over a woven white shirt, but only one hand shown under one of the sleeves. The boy tilted his head with contempt and stared back to the officer with a fierce expression.

"So what are y'a gonna do? Take it back?"

The officer looked over his shoulder in a second. He didn't want to lose the teen, but he had to see they were alone. The angry baker was far away from them, probably still cursing that poor rat, as he had called the teen in front of him. Abberline cleared his throat and started to smooth the over handled paper. Fortunately despite all the wrinkles the images were still recognisable.

"No, not today even if I should. You can keep that stale bread. He can make more. I need you to look at this," he said as he showed the paper to the boy. The teenager took a step towards him, but all his body language screamed that he was more than ready to run away from the officer if he needed to. His sharp eyes scanned the file with the missing children portraits and he wrinkled his nose. "I'm looking for them, do you recognise anyone?"

His eyes stopped for some seconds more when he looked at the scarred girl's portrait, and Abberline knew that he knew her. He also knew that he wasn't going to tell him anything. His guts were like that, and he followed them, no matter how many times Randall had told him to not to do so.

"I know two of them. But I don't think I can help y'a, sire."

"You owe me one."

"I owe nothing. But I know Doll, yes."

"Who's that?"

The teen laid a finger on the scarred girl portrait with his eyes scanning the empty dead end. He still could climb the barrels if he was fast enough…

"Someone I met. Why are y'a looking for 'em?"

"We're investigating a case. I don't want to detain anyone, I'm just trying to know if we can still find them alive."

"Look 'round the docks."

The police officer weighed that information and folded the paper carefully before he saved it in his pocket. The docks? He had been sent to the slums, but he could use his spare time to check around the London docks. The thing he needed to know was, which one? The city had plenty of them, and plenty of floodgates to inspect, too.

"Which one?"

But before Abberline could react, the boy had already ran towards the barrels placed against a nearby wall and had climbed them. And what a skillful landing. He stopped with one leg already over the brick wall and gave him a smile full of bright teeth.

"The Royals, sire, and thanks for the bread!"

With a flourish and a trained jump, Abberline lost him from sight and stood alone in the dead end street, still holding the paper in his hand inside the pocket of his coat.

Luck smiled to Vincent and the Earl was quite content. As content as someone with all the responsibilities he carried on his shoulders could be, at least. Looking for Pit had been unnecessary because the photographer had looked for him in the first place. Sometimes things just worked out. He signed an invitation for a Yule ball, which usually was Rachel's duty because the countess enjoyed everything that involved preparation ahead of time, and cleaned the quill. That year the ball didn't overlapped with Ciel's birthday and that was another thing to be grateful for. Even if it was because it will avoid unnecessary and pompous apologies, and excuses, and more social norms that would become an absurd. Vincent understood the social rules and played them well, but sometimes they could result quite a nuisance. The man got up from the chair and stretched his legs while his eyes were looking for the desk clock. Pit had sent a short telegram informing of his arrival at luncheon time; said telegram had arrived just the night before, when Vincent was busy reading a new report sent by Randall. The photographer was skilled and dutiful yet somehow messy in his procedures. Still, the young man was a good piece to keep around, especially when gruesome cases needed coverage –or a lack of it– and Pit was more than predisposed when money was involved. The earl left the bureau in silence and closed the door at his back. He could take a brief walk around the gardens while he was waiting for Pit and maybe it would help to clear his head for a while. The ambience felt static despite the general calm around the house and he shrugged his shoulders both to put his back straight and to shake away the discomfort. The sensation permeated his skin and Vincent stopped his tracks in the middle of the hall to take a deep breath. He filled his lower lungs, counted down from five, and released the air from his mouth. Pit would come and they would discuss when will they met to take the family portrait; maybe they would talk about the current case, and they would enjoy some small talk. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyelids in circles. If only he could sleep better like he did before. He resumed his wander around the place and reached the next hallway, illuminated and unpolluted like the one he had just left. The games room wasn't far from there and that morning the children had had classes early, and the French governess wouldn't arrive until three o'clock. The closer he got to the room, the clearer the sounds became. A door was closed several feet ahead of him and Vincent chuckled. Hide and seek, of course, and even better if it included Sebastian.

"No, come back, you have to help me look for him!"

The Earl's smile widened when the sad voice was heard from inside the room. The door was ajar and a pitch black snout opened the wooden panel enough to fit through and slip out. Vincent scratched the dog ears with affection and got in one knee to pet him better. The borzoi wasn't a clingy animal; on the contrary, he ought be one of the most independent dogs Vincent had met, but he was the exception that confirmed the rule. The door opened more and Ciel looked at him from the same eye level with a frown on his forehead. When he spoke his voice was full of resentment.

"But I need Sebastian's help!"

The earl got up and patted his morning suit formed by a simple shirt, dark grey striped trousers, a light brown vest and a black jacket, before he ruffled the boy's hair. The frown in Ciel's forehead became a bit deeper and the child huffed. The sunlight coming from the window shone on his rings when he moved his hand.

"Did you count down already?"

"Almost. Maybe you can help us?"

"Do you need my help to look for your brother?"
"He never loses at games," replied Ciel while balancing his weight back and forth. The longer it took him to count down, the more difficult it would be to find his brother. If only he wasn't that good at playing that game. Or any game, for the case. He looked up to his father and tapped the floor with one foot. "And this time we're betting."

"Ah?"

That was interesting and would distract him better than a walk around the gardens. Vincent inhaled deep and crossed his hands at his back. He had been so busy the past weeks that he had left Ciel all on his own, he hadn't been behaving like the perfect father he presumed to be. Sebastian pressed his head against his knees and he caressed the dog's neck with his right hand while keeping the other behind.

"What are you betting?"

"Some sweets that Auntie Angelina brought to us" replied the boy with a happy tone. "We saved the lemon caramels, the violet drops, and the licorice bars. Whoever wins the three rounds of three different games keeps them."

"I must assume it is because of the missing candy that you two have been eating so little these days, hm?"

Ciel gulped and looked away, looked back to Vincent, and slowly looked down to Sebastian. He didn't want to earn a scold for hiding sweets in his room. But maybe he was reading too much in the stern face of his father and all of it was a teasing façade. Vincent raised an eyebrow in an inquisitive way and drew a hand to his chin.

"If I help you, I keep the licorice. And your mother should never find out if you want to keep the violet drops. You know how much she loves them."

The ceremony wasn't being remarkable at all. One could had even said it had been too plain, almost obscenely stark. The wind that swept the cemetery grass pierced through clothes and whistled in the nearby cypress branches. The mortician made a strangled sound to himself the quieter he could when he noticed that fact. People believed those trees were sacred to the Fates and the Furies, and it was also dedicated to Pluto. But those ideas were ignored by the majority apart of few scholars and all that was left were superstitions. He straightened his back. The priest kept reading a slow prayer for the young woman's soul. There were only four people around the recent grave: the priest, the young woman who had visited him three days ago, another nameless redhead woman, and himself. What a way to go, he mused as he laid his eyes on the yellow puddle that were the daffodils resting at the feet of the pit. At least she had received visitors on her departure; the latest ceremonies he had been in had been quite lonely, and at least three times he was the only present. Somehow, the redhead woman seemed out of place and the mortician couldn't discern why. Maybe it was her long hair gathered in a low ponytail with a black ribbon, or her striking dark red coat; she cleaned her red framed glasses with a handkerchief and put them back on her nose with one gloved finger. The priest closed the fabric bound Bible he held in his hands and muttered under his breath the rest of the prayer. Despite his efforts that soul would probably just wander forever. After all, the mortician thought, there were far worse things than that. Undertaker picked up the shovel which rested against the cypress trunk and weighed the tool. The wind waved their clothes with increased intensity. The younger of the two women got closer to the open grave and threw a little bag with some coins inside; or at least he could have swore it had sounded like that, a low thud against the wooden surface of the coffin's lid. A payment for Charon*, the ferryman, even if with just one coin per person was enough. She got closer to the grave and stood in silence with her hands over her mouth. The priest started to leave with slow steps and with his book tightly clutched against his chest. The other woman tilted her head and frowned when she laid her eyes on him, but turned her head with grace and left behind the priest. Undertaker lowered his head and his hair hid his face enough to allow him to curve his lips in a discreet smile. Probably Charon wouldn't like the extra weight. The young woman turned to him with her hair over her face, waved back and forth by the wind.

"Thanks again."

"It's just my work, milady."

His tone was serious despite his voluble voice. And honest. The shovel made a metallic noise when the mortician nailed it on the pile of dirt at their side. The air smelled of damp earth and wet grass, of daffodils and strong cheap perfume. Out of nowhere, Undertaker had the certainty that the dead girl would have prefered carnations.

"Y'a could have sent me away."

She looked down to the grave and wrinkled her nose before she cleaned her face with a handkerchief and threw it inside the hole. Her voice was still bobbly despite all her deep breaths.

"She would've prefered carnations."

"Daffodils are a good choice, too. They mean a deep regard and the death of youth."

"Does it matter? What she liked."

She cleaned her face with one of the long sleeves of her coat and took some steps back. The mortician didn't add anything else and threw the first scoop of dirt inside the grave. It scattered all over the flowers, the handkerchief and the bag of coins. The sun shone between the cypress branches and the woman wrapped herself tighter inside the garment.

"I hope 'ey find any rest."

The man who guided him down there wasn't very talkative. Since Abberline had explained him the situation, the overall details of the case, and had demanded to access to the sewers, he could have said no more than five words in a scarce sentence. The inspector wrinkled his nose and fixed his eyes in the oil lamp held by the supervisor. It was one of the many names to refer to those who guarded and cleaned the sewers nearest to the floodgates. Their work wasn't pleasant nor relaxed but it was very necessary. One never knew what could get trapped in the many iron grids that filtered and separated the Thames. Little water springs fell from the ceilings all the way down the moss-covered brick walls. The cascades shone when they passed by them, briefly illuminated by the oil lamp carried by the old man. He was barely taller than the young inspector and wore a heavy leather coat full of pockets. His hair, or what was left of it, was covered with a woolen urchin cap.

"Here it is."

Abberline gulped and fixed his eyes on the flickering flame first. He wasn't sure if he wanted to look despite his ample field experience. The water running at their feet seemed to sound higher than before, but he knew it was just an illusion, the water kept flowing with the same pace. The flame flickered again and the inspector blinked. He looked down to where the man gestured with one arm. He went pale and a wave of bile burned his throat. Under the orange light of the lamp and the green-brown water around the image just looked worse than it was. Frederick had found one of the lost children and gruesome wasn't enough to describe their state. He made a flourish with one gloved hand when he took a handkerchief from the front pocket of his coat and put it over his mouth. He old man twisted his lips and moved the oil lamp away. The shadows engulfed most of the dead child and Abberline thanked him with a silent nod.

"When-" a cough interrupted the young officer and he cleared his throat; Frederick pressed the handkerchief against his mouth for a second. Then he saved the crumpled piece inside his front pocket. "When did you found him?"

"This morning. That poor thing must have been left here to rot, at least, for a week. But usually I don't come this far because this floodgate is almost never used, sir."

"I have to notify the central to pick the body. You have to come with me, so we can ask you some questions."

The old man sniffed loudly and scratched his jaw. His talkative attitude was gone as soon as it had appeared.

"Yes. Of course."

"Now, I need to get out of here."

"I assume you hadn't been down here too much, officer?"

"Indeed."

Frederick didn't like the implied disdain in his tone. He had been all around the city but it was the third time he had to investigate something in the sewers. The young man didn't like that web of old tunnels filled with water and vermin, human and animal alike. He preferred to be above the ground level, where he could know more or less what to expect behind a corner. The sewers were like the belly of a beast, polluted and dark. In his opinion, that wasn't a bad description for the city too. The old man passed by his side and he noticed the slight limp in the man's way of walk. An old injury in his right leg, ventured Fred as he followed him until they reached a rust-covered ladder anchored to the wall.

"Do you want to go first, officer?"

His feet hurt. Pressing his jaw he kept the smile on his lips. Inside, he just wanted to finish already. His mother was behind him sitting on a chair with a pale cream dress. The frill at the end of the sleeves made a whispering sound each time she moved a mere inch. Again. At his left was Ciel, who instead of being still and smiling like mister Pitt had told them, was swinging his weight back and forth. Their father placed a hand on the older boy's shoulder and, at least for a second, Ciel stood still. For a second. He closed his eyes and inhaled. It was just a family portrait before his brother's birthday. Ciel giggled under his breath and moved again. Just when mister Pit pressed a button, a click was heard, and a flash of light filled the room. The photographer waved his hands in the air to disperse the cloud of smoke with a smile on his lips. The freckles on his cheeks accentuated his childish appearance along with his unruly hair.

"Well! Let's see how this one develops."

Rachel moved in her chair with a polite smile and caressed her younger's son hair.

"Are you fine?"

"Yes."

But he wanted to complain about Ciel, about how he couldn't be still for some minutes when he was excited by something. About how irritating it was. He knew he wasn't being fair at all and that, in the end, he was just angry because he had lost the candy games. If only their father hadn't helped Ciel to look for him… Pit smiled and turned to his leather bag to look for another flashlight.

"We can take another one just in case. Do you mind, Earl?"

"Take as many as you want. And Ciel, this time be still until we're done."

Ciel looked over his shoulder and smiled to his father.

"Sorry. I promise I will not move."

He snickered and blew some air to move a loose strand of hair that fell over his nose. He really hoped Ciel was being honest that time. Like the three other times before. His mother pressed his shoulder in an affectionate gesture and he relaxed his muscles. It had been just a game and a good and fair person shouldn't get angry over petty things. Least a noble, polite boy. They were just candies and he could sneak to the kitchens as many times as he wanted to get more. That wasn't the problem, the thought as he watched how Pit mounted and lit the next magnesium flash. He smiled on automatic. The problem was that he had lost on something, and he never ever lost.

"Now, be still!"

Ciel gave him a quick glance before he fixed his eyes to the front again. The boy held his breath when the magnesium ignited and flashed before his eyes. He blinked several times and shifted his weight from feet to feet. The indoors suit itched. He wasn't just moving for the sake of it.

"We got a good one! Now you can move and jump all you want, little lords."

He liked the photographer's voice. If Ciel concentrated on it alone, the first thing that came to his mind were the bards from Finian's tale and other folklore stories he and his brother used to read. Probably Pit was a good storyteller. The child scratched his neck and got down from the improvised scenario where they stood posing. It was just an arranged room with some fabrics hung and some decoration objects. Like a theatre.

"Can I see it when it is ready?"

"Of course. And I can make as many copies of it as you want."

"How?"

Rachel got up from her seat and smoothed her dress. Next she gave her delicate updo a tentative touch to see if all the thin silver flowers entwined in the braids were in their place. Finally, she stretched her limbs with discrete gestures. Her younger son went to his brother's side as soon as the photographer started to display his collection of extravagant tools. They were as curious as their father. But she was like that when she was young, too, Rachel thought fidgeting with the frilled sleeves of her dress. And so did Angelina.

"What is this for?"

"Be careful with that."

"And this?"

Despite his efforts, Pit was soon overcame by the curious boys who couldn't keep their hands still. Vincent chuckled at her side and she looked up to him.

"I told Pit not to let them near the camera."

"You know how they are." Rachel inhaled and turned her face to the boys. Pit was flustered and tried to save most of his equipment away from the children without being too obvious.

"Mister Pit, do you want something to eat?"

"I won't say no to a pudding, milady. I have to say, that the one I have here is the best I've ever tried."

The photographer looked a tad distressed and the countess knew too well that, if it was only by politeness, he wouldn't complain about the curious children assaulting him with questions. Rachel entwined her hands with grace before her chest and got closer to the three of them.

"I'd like to have a photography of the two of them alone, can I?"

The young man gifted her with a cheerful and slightly nervous smile as he put an expensive lens outside the boys' reach.

"Of course you do, milady. What about you two?"

Ciel searched for his little brother's eye and a smile flourished on his lips. He was going to turn ten years soon and of course he wanted to have a photo. Maybe he could ever place it on his nightstand if his brother didn't find it too cheesy.

"Yes! Please, will you pose with me?"

He knew too well that he couldn't say no to Ciel when he put on that sad face. He was tired and wanted to rest; and if resting involved eating pudding, the better. Yet the boy was right and it was his birthday soon and he wanted to be a good brother. Good brothers were nice to each other even when they were tired. And Ciel had been nice to him the past weeks despite their differences. He smiled back at his older brother and a light pink colored his cheeks.

"Where do we have to stand?"

* In Greek mythology, Charon is the ferryman of Hades who carries the souls of the recently deceased across the rivers Styx and Acheron in the Underworld.